Dawn
by maenhi
Summary: Season 3 After his mysterious return, Charles keeps waking from his dreams. - Written for Hearts&Guts 2010. Charles F. Ofdensen, gen, angst.


**Title**: Dawn**  
Main character(s)**: Charles Ofdensen  
**Timeline**: post season 3 opening  
**Genre**: angst, gen  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Warnings**: implied violence and mind control  
**Summary**: After his mysterious return, Charles keeps waking from his dreams.

**A/N**: This was written for "Hearts & Guts" 2010, a Metalocalypse gift exchange on Valentine's Day. I hope you enjoy my little take on the Dethklok manager. Feedback is always appreciated!

***

**Dawn**

When Charles Foster Ofdensen wakes, he remembers he's alive.

The middle-aged man sits up in bed and listens to the silence for a moment. As though he'd never before properly paid attention, he's suddenly aware of the breath filling and leaving his lungs; his chest stretching and constricting forcefully while he tries to regain his life-saving selfcontrol.

_It was a dream. They're safe. You're safe. No need to hyperventilate._

Charles takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm his heart. None of these dreams are actual dreams, lately. He reaches to the nightstand for his glasses.

Here they are, just where he placed them at night when he went to bed. Everything's fine. He puts them on and throws a look at his clock: 4:18, not exactly a time to start the day. But there's something cold gripping his insides when he considers going back to sleep, and he's very much willing to forego this sensation.

The floor is icy when Charles gets out of bed and he hurries to put on his slippers and bathrobe. Outside his window, the December sky is still dark as a well. With a little sigh, Charles runs one hand through his hair and leaves the bedroom.

Whenever he crosses his office, it's soothing like nothing else, and the effect doesn't fail him this time either. Having his sleeping environment border with the working place had been an architectural masterstroke, he has to give himself that much.

Everything is tidy as he had left it the night before, no pen out of place and no sign of confusion whatsoever. Hell, he isn't confused! There's got to be a different word for this, a better one.

Charles crosses the room and steps out into the corridor.

The Klokateers have already lit a handful of torches to illuminate the hallways, and Charles feels himself relax notably at this sign of alertness. With every step towards the Mordhaus kitchen, his heart is calming a little more, his dream losing some of its clarity. Soon, the edges will fuzz, and he'll be able to focus again.

"Good morning, master. May I serve you breakfast?"

The Klokateer's posture implies that he can't imagine anything more satisfying than dropping an egg into a pan right now; but mornings make you see funny things. Also, that sick feeling hasn't left Charles' stomach yet, and he shakes his head.

"No, thank you. In fact, I'd like to be by myself in here for some."

When the servant leaves, Charles walks over to the coffee machine and prepares two cups with just the right amount of fresh beans and hot water. Then he shoves the pot in place and turns the machine on.

_If you can do the things yourself, then do._ It doesn't seem too long ago that his father had told him these words in his adolescence; and not one day has passed in which Charles hasn't remembered them. The fact that his father's idea of how to properly live one's life didn't match his own never kept Charles from applying his well-meant advice. _The moment you think you're better, they can get to you._

Charles sighs. He certainly doesn't think he's better than anyone else - all he did was pull the right strings at the right time. And that takes balls.

The water starts boiling, and the first drops soak their way through the filter. Brownish liquid falls to the bottom of the glass pot, where the drips shape into a dirty little puddle. Charles has unknowingly started to rub circles across his chest. The tension won't leave.

_  
I want you to stay alive. I want you to stay alive while I torture you._

_Feel the pain-_

_No._

_No no no.  
_

Splish. Splish.

_  
Run. They have to run; but no one knows they have to._

_It's cold here ... so cold ... it can't be real, or the water would freeze, the sweat ... it would be icicles, tiny icicles falling to the ground with a clicking sound ..._

_Dark. And not dark at all._

_He opens his eyes, and the Nothing is so blinding it hurts._

_But that pain, the other pain, is real._

_Hungry. Predatory. Consuming. Then there's sound before light, and he reacts too late._

The cup shatters on the stone floor. It's all it takes for Charles to find himself back in the kitchen and know he had never left it. The broken porcelain is white like the absence of color. With a sigh, he leans himself against the kitchen boards.

"Foolery", he mutters to himself. "This is not helping."

Fortunately, there are hundreds of other white porcelain cups in the top left counter, and Charles takes out one more. He places it next to the coffee machine then presses his fingers to his temples. His head is burning from the inside out, heat lapping at the skull greedily. The day has not so much as started, and he's exhausted already.

Splish. When did that sound start to give him goosepumps?

Charles releases an exasperated groan. He'd tell himself he's working too much - if there was such a thing as "working too much" for Charles Foster Ofdensen.

"Master?" One of the Klokateers, aiming to find the source of the noise, sticks his head into the kitchen door. "Is everything alright?"

"I'm _fine_, thank you very much", Charles snaps at him. There are moments when his etiquette goes to hell for a bit.

The Klokateer exits without another comment and leaves the Dethklok manager to his thoughts. As if on cue, Charles reaches up to his temple again and feels the protruding skin of a scar. It spreads from his eyebrow down to level with his left cheekbone, where the hardened skin gets lost in regular soft flesh.

_  
"Where have you been for the last nine months?"_

_"I can't tell you now - but when the time is right, I will."_

Scars, they say, tell a story. No matter how ugly, or horrific, they are part of what you experienced, and thus who you are. Whether you hate or love them, it makes not so big a difference.

Wear them with pride - that's what they say, too.

Charles lowers his hand and looks at his fingers, almost expecting the touch to have left traces. None of this makes him proud. None of this is, can be, part of him. Because no part of him would possibly have let that happen, had there been a choice.

That's right. There hadn't been a choice, or that's what he must keep telling himself.

_The world has stopped turning. He isn't aware of any sound or movement, apart from the figure standing against an infinite distance. It's closer, much closer now. He expected this to be fast, but really, speed has no place here._

_"I knew we'd meet eventually."_

_Charles never believed in God, but he finds himself in doubt for the first time. The syllables, spoken by a male voice, trickle in and are strangely warming._

_"You didn't think I'd let you go yet, did you?"_

_"Let me go?" How much has he missed? The gap pierces Charles' memory._

_"We're not done with each other."_

_He tries to straighten himself, appear strong; the pain is overwhelming and threatens to force him to his knees. Charles clenches his teeth and blinks away the blood. Never has it taken so much force to speak, but he needs to know now._

_"Is there a meaning", he squeezes out, "behind any of it?"_

_The man hesitates, just enough to stay obscured. When he speaks, his voice is calm and almost amused. "Of course there is."_

_Around them, winds are rising with determination._

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen, and hot steam has slightly fogged the windows. Charles continues to look down on a vastness of dry earth. Mordland is both beautiful and horrifying; sometimes he feels like his love for this place reasons a great deal in the challenge this means.

A few minutes later, the machine grunts one last time, then stills. Charles turns and takes the pot from its place beneath the filter then pours himself a generous brew. He doesn't tell anyone, but the sight of the dark liquid filling the white cup is always a little exciting.

As he brings it to his lips, somewhere in the haus a DethBell rings. Charles smirks.

The coffee is good, just the right amount of strong. His first cup empties faster than usual, and he fills it a second time. He left the cupboard open (just in case more cups would break this morning), which now gives him a perfect view on Dethklok's coffee mugs. The simulated skulls with different hairstyles strike him as more childish than usual, childish and dear – no other mugs could be in their place.

Toki's is particularly curious; the youngest band member started quite a riot in order to have his own custom design, just a few weeks ago. It had entirely escaped Charles' notice that so far, he'd been using a copy of Skwisgaar's - another prank of his bandmates, as he'd assume. However, Toki doesn't seem to find those pranks very funny lately. There's no doubt: the kid has changed. Charles has been waiting for him to emancipate himself from Skwisgaar's guitar dominance, and perhaps this is the time.

Only, does late puberty always include so much calamity? And death. Toki's identification process is directly proportional to death, that much is certain.

Charles takes a thoughtful sip and smiles. He knew what he was signing up for. With stunning clarity, he remembers the signing of a record contract worth billions.

_"What do I tell you guys before every meeting?"_

_"Try not to punch people."_

Billions that don't hurt, of course, but not the main reason for his loyalty. Charles is proud of several things he's achieved, but number one on that list would be "still loving his job". Feeling responsible, no matter what's in for him. Fucking emcaring/em for those five guys who sometimes are the world's most popular music act, and sometimes just really confused.

He never wanted children of his own, but really, how much more nerve-wracking could that have been? Apparently, both require all the protection he can give.

Charles touches one of his scars again, a different one. It's actually more like a web of white lines where new flesh closed a wound. They run from his left upper arm down the underside of his elbow and drain off a few inches above his wrist.

They are fine, too fine to notice at first sight, and he's wearing long sleeves most of the time anyway. He knows the boys would call them "brutal" and approve, but he doesn't feel like explaining.

_"911! Someone call 911! Are you fucking deaf?!"_

_"What happened?"_

_"Hello? Is anyone at home? Hello?!"_

_"There's a fire in Willow Lane, number ... number ... WHAT NUMBER IS THIS? ... Eleanor ... my name is Eleanor. Ninety-seven, that's the number!-_

_"For heaven's sake, someone keep that child away!"_

_"-that's the number. Ninety-seven. The entire house is on fire-"_

_"...come on, boy, there's nothing-"_

_"SOMEONE TAKE HOLD OF THAT CHILD!"_

_"It's ... there's a child ... a boy ... just ran off into the fire, officer."_

He burns his tongue with the next sip. The stinging sensation remains even after he's emptied a glass of cold water, and Charles allows himself to curse some.

The memory is vivid - maybe because hardly a day passes on which he doesn't revisit it.

_  
Flames eating at his eleven-year-old self's home, singing with glee and painting the bright yellow walls black. The wood breaks first. Charles storms off with the skill of a little gymnastic champion, arms reaching out for him to no avail. The sky is so bright against smoke and grime. With a sound he doesn't notice, Charles breaks through the splintered door and finds himself at the inferno's heart._

The man he is now has to gasp for breath a little. He remembers it all as the years pass by, bringing the day to life in his memory again and again. He also wonders why he keeps torturing himself with such passion.

_  
Protesting, his lungs constrict and try to repel the soot. Charles coughs and presses his sleeve in front of his nose and mouth - he's seen that in the movies. The stairs are wobbling dangerously as he's stumbling upwards._

_"Mom? Dad?" And after a pause, "Cybil?"_

_It's much hotter up here, but the source of the fire has to be somewhere downstairs. Amidst the mess that is his consciousness, there is one crystal clear certainty: It must have been the fireplace._

_"Cybil!" His voice croaks as his throat cramps._

_The floor creaks under battered sneakers as Charles heads for his sister's bedroom and throws the door open. Simultaneously, he can hear voices downstairs; people must've joined him._

_Their yells - for him, probably - die away between ground and first floor. The fire has devoured half of the room, and is still at work._

_He runs for her, nightshirt too dark, limbs too wrong. The smell of burnt flesh would fill Charles' senses, if he already knew what burnt flesh smells like._

_He's halfway there when the floorboards crumble. With outstretched arms, he reaches for his sister and jumps, but the blaze won't let him have her. The darting flame catches him by surprise as it whips up in defense of its prey. The light is so bright, it dazzles him more than his own burning skin._

_Then someone else enters the room. He knows it only because they grab and pull him, out, away, like claws of hell, until he can breathe again. And breathe he does._

Charles sets the cup down on the kitchen counter; he's started shaking. When no longer in danger of breaking equipment, he stretches and takes a deep breath. Several vertebrae crack with the movement, releasing some of the tension. He's so cold.

The coffee's empty anyway, and Charles puts his cup in the sink. _Stupid caffeine stuff, making your heart race like that._ The sun's yet a mere idea on the horizon.

Painfully aware of each of his forty-one years in this world, Charles sits down on the kitchen bench and tries to relax his tense limbs. He pulls his bathrobe tighter, but the shivering won't stop.

_I couldn't have saved them. It was too late, and I too small. It's not my fault._

Charles clenches his eyes shut. _It's not my fault._ He knows the power of fire; he deals with it daily, now. He knows the inevitability of fate as well. It's a circle, all of it, with its pains and meanings. _I couldn't have saved them._

Why then does it make his chest ache like this? Charles takes up rubbing circles across his breastbone and focuses on steady breathing. Maybe the coffee hadn't been such a good idea, after all.

_No matter whose fault it was, I lost them. No one's fault. They're still lost._

The thirty years to follow that particular afternoon in Willow Lane number 97 were eventful. Bits are gone from what happened immediately afterwards; but Charles remembers the first time he shared a bedroom at Bethesda Home for Boys with three others, who had huge eyes that stared at him. No one spoke much at first, but the years to come would warm them up, like the cosy blankets did at night. He had everything, except for his family. He knew he had much more than other children.

He was told a little later that there had been furniture too close by the fireplace, which set the living room on fire while his parents were taking a nap on the couch. When they noticed, it was too late to leave the room. He knew they had been dead before his sister, but no one bothered to tell him details.

Charles was eighteen and generally content with the education offered at Bethesda, when he decided music was his life. With a high-school diploma of top grades, he left the institution, knowing he couldn't wait - _this_ couldn't wait.

Rock music. Metal music. The stuff he had learned to hang his heart onto.

Charles smiles at the memory - good to know the positive stuff's just as vivid. Because yes he still perfectly recalls the first record stores he visited, applying for a job, and the bright and fancy _Olympic Records_ that would eventually employ him. Not education but impressive musical knowledge should help, and then, salary after salary would be invested in economy lectures at university. Because even too young to have a pint, Charles knew that music was business too - and that with both an academic title and a love for heavy guitars, he'd be unstoppable.

"Master?" One hooded servant interrupts his thoughts. "We're almost finished with the preparations for Mr Explosion's hamburgertime day celebration. All we need is your agreement."

Charles has restored his posture and nods. "Excellent. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Yes, Master."

That's right; Nathan's birthday. _None of us is getting any younger_, Charles thinks; then mentally slaps himself for sounding like a geezer. It's true though.

He takes the used filter from the coffee machine and throws it away then rinses the plastic. The smells and sounds and textures are familiar, even though it's been a while he's done all of this himself. It seems as if daily routine is never lost.

Another of those true smiles spreads on Charles' face as he remembers how they missed him - and damn they did! Pickles can try and hide that locket of his however much he wants. And it's not just the "being lost without him" part. It's a part he doesn't have words for, really, or doesn't want to have.

_  
"I see your loyalty. You're aware of it being your weakness, aren't you."_

_"Who are you?"_

_"Answer my question."_

_The howling winds make the silence less obtrusive than it could be. Tearing at the ends of the world, they're throwing themselves across and around, engulfing the scenery. Charles is facing the other man like nothing had happened._

_"Are you going to kill me?"_

_For a long time, he receives no reply and already wonders whether he has been heard. It is, however, a ridiculous thought._

_"This is not up to me."_

_Charles squints but can never see enough._

_"Who is it up to, then?"_

_The man almost snorts. "You're asking the wrong questions."_

_"I'm asking for information."_

_"Yet- does it suffice?"_

_He doesn't know what to say and presumes it's a trap anyways. Where else should all of this lead? The pain on and within his skull is almost breathtaking by now._

_"Tell me."_

_The mysterious figure, still clad in twilight, shakes with soft amusement. "I thought I had told you how this was not the time."_

_"Not the time to kill me, yes. Then what do you want?"_

_"It's not about what I want. You and I are connected, inevitably. We can only walk this path together."_

_Charles tries to ignore the throbbing sensation behind his eyesockets as he processes this information. "Together. We are foes."_

_"Or so you think." There is movement, ever so discreet._

_"Who are you?"_

_"_Foe _is too primitive a word for me."_

_The fog obeys. Light and shadow shift and change roles with ease. Charles feels the reply die in the back of his throat._

_"You rely on your expectations, Charles Ofdensen. Too much, I daresay."_

_Blood. White. And blood._

_The colors are mesmerizing._

_"Is this the moment?"_

_He stretches out his hand._

_"This has yet to be defined."_

_"Why do you put them in danger?"_

_"You see, this is one of the things you'll not understand until you cooperate."_

_Charles clenches his hands into fists despite himself. "Cooperate. Mhm."_

_Again, silence takes up the precious room between them and spreads languidly. The air is frizzling with tension._

_"It is your choice."_

_"You'd better tell me the truth-"_

_"The truth is no tale."_

_Charles reprimands himself, Why didn't you bring a weapon?_

_His opposite keeps looking steadfastly, then suddenly says,_

_"I will show you something."_

_Charles hesitates. When he moves, a mouth opens behind his antagonist, tearing an abyss of wildfire into the peaceful vacuum. Its flames are like from a dream._

_Another of those cold smiles. "This is not the moment, Mr Ofdensen."_

_His entire body is on alert as Charles follows suit. This time, the flames don't reject him.  
_

The air in the corridor is still chilled, but Charles knows it takes days to heat up Mordhaus. He's curious for what the Klokateers have prepared for Nathan's birthday - even though he himself proposed the most input in the run-up. Somehow that doesn't matter.

As he approaches the living room, a clock somewhere strikes six. Soon the sun will rise, then the boys, and the duties of the day. This is when the dream will fade once more in a sea of pictures, some distinct, some real. They're resurrected by the night.

"Master Ofdensen? This way, if you please."

Nine months of absence have proven to be a long time; Charles knows this. There's a lot to catch up with, but he can manage.

***


End file.
